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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887290">tomorrows that follow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnydaisy/pseuds/sunnydaisy'>sunnydaisy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Vampire Diaries (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AUTHOR IS CURRENTLY MOVING TO A HOUSE, All Human, Alternate Universe, F/M, Girl meets boy, Modern Royalty, Mostly Fluff, author is deeply sorry for moving at such an inopportune fic time, author isn't sorry!, borrows from the Prince Harry-Meghan Markle story, boy turns out to be a prince, culture clash, fish out of water vibes, justice for Caroline and Bonnie's BFF-ship, no love triangles here folks, not an isosceles to be found!, not beta read we die like men, once again I give Caroline a dog, tabloids are vicious</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:54:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnydaisy/pseuds/sunnydaisy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How was she supposed to know that the cute guy she had seen on her morning run was a prince? </p><p>That’s what she gets for deleting her Instagram.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Caroline Forbes/Klaus Mikaelson, mentions of Elijah/Katherine, mentions of Klaus's exes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>179</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. World's Most Eligible Bachelor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>tomorrows that follow</b>
</p><p>
  <strong>one</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p><em> The Daily Mirror<br/>
</em> <em> July 19, 2020 </em></p><p><em> PRINCE NIK — WORLD’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR<br/>
</em> <em> As Voted by You, Our Readers  </em></p><p><em> Henrietta Stephens, staff writer<br/>
</em> <em> Follow: @Henriett_Steph  </em></p><p><em> It will come as no shock to our readers that Prince Niklaus of Britain has won our coveted slot as the world’s top bachelor. The dashing Mikaelson beat out Lawrence Peters, star of HBO’s hit drama </em> Valor<em>, Senator Thomas Winters, who has delivered his share of fiery speeches on the floor of the United States Senate, and his own brother, fellow royal Kol Mikaelson. Despite rumors linking Prince Nik to singer Camille O’Connell, Australian model Hayley Marshall, and of course, his longtime flame Aurora de Martel, he is, our sources have assured us, most certainly single.  </em> </p><p>
  <em> The fairytale romance of his brother, Crown Prince Elijah, with Katherine Pierce has bewitched a captivated nation; their wedding, to be held at Westminster Chapel this fall, is certain to break international viewership records. It is highly expected that Prince Nik will serve as his brother’s best man; and while we eagerly await the design of the wedding gown and the surprise of which of the Queen’s beautiful tiaras Ms. Pierce will choose for her wedding day, the next most anticipated moment of the nuptials is surely the answer to the question: who will be Prince Nik’s date?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> London bookies currently place the odds at 3:1 for Aurora de Martel, 7:1 for Hayley Marshall, and 10:1 for Camille O’Connell. For the adventurous gambling spirit, ‘Unknown’ is 20:1 odds and ‘Solo’ is at 50:1.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Best of luck, ladies! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>CLICK FOR COMMENTS: </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em> @Flora_Fauna: ugh he’s so f-ing hot. Also who voted for Thomas Winters, dude’s a total snooze.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> @ChillingMeSoftly: but where’s the bachelorette list tho </em>
</p><p>
  <em> @RoyalStyleWatcher: smart money’s on Katherine picking the Strathmore Rose tiara, if it’s in decent enough shape!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> @Tiaras&amp;Silk: @RoyalStyleWatcher nah, she’ll go with the Cartier Halo. Bet.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> @Flora_Fauna: @Tiaras&amp;Silk @RoyalStyleWatcher who cares, are you LOOKING AT THIS MAN? HOT.  </em>
</p><p>—</p><p>Caroline’s eyes open, as they had for the last week, at four am on the bloody dot to stare up at the vaulted ceiling of her room. Outside, the world is dark and quiet, deep under the veil of sleep—<em>l</em><em>ike she should be</em>. Sighing heavily, she rolls over, as she had for the last week, in the vain hope that a new position will tempt sleep back, and waits hopefully for her eyelids to grow heavy. </p><p>Three minutes later, they pop back open and she rolls back over to lie flat on her back, staring despondently up at the tall ceiling that towers over her. “Great,” she grouses softly, raising her head slightly so she can let it drop disappointedly back onto her fluffy pillow. “Just freaking <em> great,</em> Forbes.” </p><p>And so, for the seventh morning in a row, she swings her legs over the side of the monstrosity of a bed and stares dejectedly at her running shoes. </p><p>The manor, situated as it is on top of a gently rolling hill, overlooks the village of Avondale; where, as far as Caroline can see from her tall window, only the street lamps are on. The rest of the town is wisely still asleep, unaffected as they are by the jet lag that somehow still plagues her. The last time she had made the transatlantic flight out of Jackson-Hartfield, it had only taken her three days to fully adjust, and even then, those three days had felt nothing like this. </p><p><em> Because this time it’s permanent</em>, a tiny voice whispers in the back of her mind as she bends over and touches her toes, letting herself linger in the hamstring stretch. The first time she had been here was simply to help the Fells in their house hunt, but now—now she is a resident in said house for the foreseeable future. </p><p>At her feet, Olive sits patiently, her tail thumping excitedly as Caroline slips the jalapeño harness over her paws and fastens it at her back. She rolls her eyes fondly at the dog’s obvious excitement as she runs through her final checklist—keys, <em> check</em>; headphones, <em> check</em>; phone, <em> check</em>; and with a satisfied nod, she opens her room door as softly as she can. </p><p>Olive darts out and vanishes down the steps, Caroline tiptoeing down the long hallway after her. She dodges the creaky step on the winding spiral staircase, and with a backwards glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that she didn’t wake anyone else in the household up, she moves as swiftly and quietly as she can towards the elaborate French doors, grabbing the leash on the way out. </p><p>Aside from being decidedly unamused at her lack of sleep, Caroline has always enjoyed the quiet of the early morning. <em> There’s a softness to the morning</em>, her dad used to say, <em> a blur around the edges where the world hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet</em>. She bounces on her toes to keep the slight nip in the air before slipping her headphones into her ears and blasting her <em> Sleep Is For the Weak </em> playlist at the loudest volume she can reasonably stand. </p><p>For the seventh time in seven days, she starts her jog at the top of the long circle drive; she’s two songs in before she reaches the exit, turning her body sideways to slide out of the walking gate next to the larger one that walls off the driveway from the road. It’s a route she knows well at this point: the road gives way, a rough mile or so in, to a main street that eventually—around two miles—leads to Avondale proper. In the heart of town, another mile later, the winding creek splits the town in half, with a cathedral on one side and a row of shops on the other. When she had first seen it, she had thought wistfully that Avondale was like something out of <em> Beauty and the Beast</em>. </p><p>In Northern England, the summer cools into autumn far faster than in Atlanta, and she watches in amazement as her breath takes shape in the air ahead of her. “Real smart, Forbes,” she whispers to herself under her music. “Move to England, they said. It’ll be an adventure, they said!”  Right now, she’d bet her mother is curled up with a chamomile tea on the front porch, a blanket over her shoulders to ward off the slight chill in the air. <em> You win</em>, she thinks to Liz from thousands of miles away, <em> I should have listened to you. </em></p><p>But the Fells’ offer had seemed too good to be true. <em> It’s a lot to ask, </em> Meredith had said apologetically, <em> but you’re so good with Fiona, and we’d just really love to keep you on for at least the next few months while we search for the best school. </em> Meredith had left it there, but Caroline had heard what was unsaid—<em>you’re not doing anything else anyway, Caroline</em>. </p><p>And it was true—since graduating from NYU, she had been forced to move back home. It’s not like she had thought it would be <em> easy</em>—nothing worth it ever was, her dad used to say—but after four years of high praise from all of her professors, she had managed to convince herself that maybe it wouldn’t be so hard <em> for her</em>.  </p><p>Instead, after a year of auditioning during the day and bartending at night, living solely on discounted Ramen and the generosity of friends, she’d tapped out—temporarily. After all, Atlanta, while not exactly one of the theater capitals of the world like New York, wasn’t exactly a backwater and Caroline refused to give up with her tail between her legs. </p><p>But since returning home, she had found herself winning only a smattering of lead roles at the local community theater and a part time talk show hosting gig on a public access channel. But otherwise? She was the literal opposite of booked and busy, and Liz was starting to hint that it was high time she moved <em> out</em>. </p><p>So why not accompany the Fells to England, hitching her grand adventure to theirs? At the very least it might help pay off the ample student loans she had racked up at Tisch. She’d drafted a pros and cons list, presented her case to her best friend Matt—<em>student loans bills </em> written in tight, neat cursive at the top of the pros column—and they had both ruled in favor of a European adventure. </p><p>The chill doesn’t stop the sweat from beading on her forehead; <em> cute </em>, she thinks in growing disdain. In pure contrast, Olive is panting happily ahead of her, her ears perked and her tail wagging fiercely as she pulls at her leash excitedly, forcing her to pick up her speed. Despite the growing stitch forming in her side, Caroline welcomes it. The pounding of her feet against the pavement helps to stave off the awareness of just how very far from home she is.  </p><p><em>I think it’s a bad idea</em>, Liz had said flatly when Caroline had told her of the Fells’ offer. <em>You went to school and got a degree, Caroline. Nannying was a job when you were a student, but glorified babysitter is not exactly what I’d call a viable career.</em> The words had skated dangerously close to the fight they had had five years prior, when Caroline had announced she was going to NYU to major in drama. <em>Acting is a hobby</em>, her mother had snapped then, <em>not a job.</em> <em>You know how many starving artists there are in one square mile of New York City alone, Caroline?</em></p><p>The memory of the words spurs her forward, desperate to drown them out under the sound of her pounding sneakers. </p><p>As her feet carry her from the secluded road upon which the manor sits down to the main thoroughfare, Caroline finds herself desperately missing her dad. He’d sneak her handfuls of twenty dollar bills every time he came to visit—<em>get yourself some headshots</em>, he’d said with a wink, <em> just don’t tell your mother</em>—and she’s positive he would be in her corner on this. She’d told her mother as much, had hurled the words at her with enough force that her cheeks still heat with the remnants of shame.  </p><p>The unexpected prick of tears in her eyes makes her shake her head and rejoin the present. The main road, while secluded and quiet at this time of day, still requires more awareness than the more private road she had just left, so Caroline lifts her chin and lets Olive pull her down the pavement. </p><p>It’s here, on the outskirts of town, that she passes a few small homes and shops. Dark and quiet, they fly by her as she runs: a travel agency, a real estate broker, a small Sainsbury’s that she has already frequented a few times, and a dog grooming salon. Olive makes as though to stop at the last one, her long legs slowing in interest. </p><p>“No,” she scolds lightly, tugging on the leash; undaunted, Olive darts ahead of her. </p><p>By the time the thoroughfare ends, the sun is beginning to slowly announce itself just beyond the horizon, the sky streaking into lavender and soft pink. She checks her watch and notes with no small amount of pleasure that she’s beating yesterday’s time—an unexpected surprise. Yesterday, she had pushed herself, desperately trying to outrun thoughts of her dad—would he support her decision to follow the Fells to England, what would he think of her languishing acting career; and the one that hurts the most to brush up against, lingering like the ache of a bruise: <em> would he be proud of her?  </em> </p><p>But today, she is only trying to keep up with Olive, her beloved and faithful failed attempt at fostering a rescue dog. <em> Congratulations</em>, the shelter manager had said with a grin as he handed over Olive’s paperwork, <em> you flunked foster parenting 101 and adopted your ward</em>. </p><p>It had been her one condition to accepting the Fells’ proposal—she wouldn’t leave Olive behind. Meredith had blinked at her before breaking into a wide smile. <em> We would never ask you to do that</em>, she had said enthusiastically, <em> and Fi loves Ollie! </em>And it was true—six-year-old Fiona Fell adored the mutt, a love that was thankfully, blessedly mutual. </p><p>Her watch buzzes, alerting her of the three-and-a-half-mile mark, and Caroline takes a moment to take stock of herself: legs—burning; lungs—cold; Olive—thrilled; playlist—bangin’; and she nods as she heads down the final stretch towards the bridge. </p><p>It’s on her way there that she passes the only other runner she’s seen the last seven days. He’s young—a little older than her, if she’s not mistaken—and handsome, if not the slightest bit familiar looking. </p><p>The last few mornings, Caroline had given him the customary runner’s nod—a <em> hello, I acknowledge that I see you, my fellow runner; you acknowledge that you see me and here our interaction ends unless one of us requires an alibi witness</em>—and he’d given it politely back. Today, however, he adds a half smile in recognition and she realizes with a jolt that he has dimples. She moves him squarely up from <em> wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers </em> to <em> would bang like a screen door in a hurricane. </em></p><p>She wonders what drives someone so cute out of bed at this ungodly hour to run—if he simply enjoys it; or if he, like her, is trying to outrun the pervasive thoughts that won’t let up. </p><p>But Olive won’t let her wonder for long, pulling at the leash until Caroline’s watch buzzes again. Four miles in thirty-eight minutes, a personal best that makes her smile, just a little, as she slows her pace before coming to a complete stop. She leans against the side of the bridge to stretch, Olive’s leash wrapped around her wrist as she pulls her heel up to her bum. Olive trots over as far as the leash will allow to sniff at the brick of the bridge; Caroline follows her towards the water fountain at the edge of the bridge, turning it on so Olive can lap at the water that trails from its spout. </p><p>Leaning against the bridge, she watches as the breeze ripples across the creek, the pink and orange reflected in its depths as the sun continues its march into the sky. Avondale is beautiful, but she observes it at a distance, an outsider still in all the ways that matter.  </p><p>Twelve weeks ago, Meredith had been offered the head of surgery at the large regional NHS hospital thirty minutes from Avondale; her husband, a pediatrician, had uprooted his practice to work at a private children’s clinic nearby. <em> We’d really love if you could come, </em> Meredith had said when pitching the job to her, <em> since Fiona is so attached to you and you’ve just really—well, you’re basically part of the family, Caroline, and since adjusting may be hard for Fi, we thought it might help for you to be around</em>. She had smiled, a little sheepishly. <em> I’ll be working a lot at first, and so will David, and we just really think it would help. </em> </p><p>And so she had packed her bags, fitting her entire life into two rolling suitcases. </p><p>Caroline checks her watch again. It’s nearly five and she needs to be back by seven, before Fiona wakes up for school. Sighing, she turns back to the street and leans her elbows against the bridge. </p><p>Down the sidewalk, a small street vendor is setting up and she debates the merits of grabbing a bear claw for the road. Her stomach rumbles at the thought and Olive looks up at her expectantly. The day before yesterday, she had bought a donut at the same cart, and the owner had slipped Olive a dog treat; Caroline wonders idly just how good a dog’s memories are. </p><p>Good enough, apparently, that Olive tugs Caroline towards the cart expectantly. “Okay,” she says with a tiny laugh, pulling her headphones out of her ears so that they dangle around her neck. “You win, Ollie girl.” </p><p>“Mornin’,” the vendor, an older man with bifocals and solid white hair, says cheerfully as he sets up his small till. He reminds her of her grandfather, his hands wrinkled and busy as he arranges everything to his liking. “Didn’t see you yesterday, love, everything all right, then?”</p><p>Her face heats. “Oh, um—I didn’t grab anything yesterday,” she confesses. “Wasn’t hungry.”</p><p>The vendor <em> tsk </em>s. “You’re too thin,” he admonishes gently as he dusts the case next to the till. “What’ll it be this mornin’?” </p><p>Biting her lip, Caroline taps the glass in front of the bear claw. “It looked so good Wednesday,” she says as he sends her a fond smile and reaches for his tongs. “Couldn’t resist.”</p><p>She reaches down to the small front pocket of her running leggings, fingers brushing past her house key—and then nothing. Her fingers slip on the empty pocket, skimming against nothing but the dry-wick of the fabric. </p><p><em> Oh, no. </em> She distinctly remembers slipping her house key in her pocket, and she has her phone and headphones, but <em> she forgot money.  </em></p><p>“Um,” she says, shifting nervously from foot to foot, “I’m really sorry, but uh, I think I—I forgot my wallet.” She backs away a step in embarrassment, and feels solid mass at her back before turning, her face heating even further as hands come up to her forearms to steady her and Olive dances excitedly at their knees at the prospect of a <em> new friend</em>. “Oh god, I’m sorry—”</p><p>Cute Running Guy waves her off. “Put it on my tab, James,” he says to the vendor, whose eyebrows rise just a bit before he smiles again, wider this time, and hands her the pastry. </p><p>“No, seriously, it’s fine—”</p><p>He waves her off again, and there’s a quiet thread of authority running behind the gesture, as though he’s used to being obeyed. Her mouth shuts, and she’s immediately annoyed with herself. </p><p>“For you this mornin’, sir?” the vendor asks and Cute Running Guy glances down at the bear claw in her hand. </p><p>“The same,” he says and, minutes later, she inexplicably finds herself walking with him, away from the cart, bear claw in hand. </p><p>“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, and almost as soon as she says the words, she could smack herself. “I mean, thank you, that was really nice, but also like, completely unnecessary—”</p><p>“Nonsense,” he says easily, stopping at the edge of the bridge near the cathedral; she finds herself stopping too. “Come here often?” </p><p>“I’ve seen you like the last six—”<em> seven</em>, her brain corrects, but she doesn’t acknowledge her error, “—days.” </p><p>He laughs lowly, and the sound makes her insides warm. “Seven,” he says and she hopes he can’t see her blush under her lingering post-run red face. “You’re the first person I’ve seen up at this hour.”  </p><p>“Yeah, I’m still a little jet lagged.”  </p><p>“American,” he says, and it isn’t a question.  </p><p>“Yep, ‘fraid so.” She bites into her bear claw and tears a tiny piece off for Olive, who snatches it off of her fingers. “Got here Sunday, and my sleep schedule is still all out of whack.”</p><p>“Melatonin,” he says, and she watches as the morning sun catches the gold in his hair. The curl is just this shy of messy, and she gets the impression that if he left it to grow any longer, it would be downright unruly. She finds herself wishing that he would, this stranger. “The weary traveler’s best friend, I’ve found,” he continues. “Where are you from, then, in America?”</p><p>“Georgia. Atlanta, specifically.” Caroline tilts her head. “What about you?”</p><p>His lashes sweep down over his blue eyes as he blinks. “I’m from England,” he tells her gravely, and it’s so unexpected that she laughs, startling Olive. </p><p>“Yeah, no sh—uh, obviously, Sherlock. Where in England?”</p><p>“London,” he says, “but I’m here working for a few more weeks.”</p><p>“What do you do for work?”  </p><p>One of his eyebrows arches. “I’m a government employee,” he says dryly.  </p><p>“Oh, good benefits,” she offers brightly before looking down the metaphorical precipice and deciding to jump. She sticks her hand out. “I’m Caroline, and this is Olive.” </p><p>The eyebrow arches higher, just a bit, before he shakes her hand. </p><p>“Nik,” he says, and then he squats down to let Olive lick his hand in greeting. “Pleasure to meet the both of you.”  </p><p>Her watch buzzes as her phone’s alarm begins to sound in the headphones laying against her collarbone; a strange disappointment sweeps over her as she pushes herself away from the bridge. “Well,” she says, tugging on Olive’s leash, “thanks for breakfast. I owe you.” She smiles up at him. “See you here at the same time tomorrow?”  </p><p>Something flares in his eyes, but it’s gone before she can pin it down and study it. “Or,” Nik says, turning to walk with her, “you could go with me to dinner.” He flashes her a smile that fully showcases his dimples and something twists low in her stomach. “Now that we are no longer strangers.” </p><p><em> Dinner</em>. Before she can overthink it and dissect all the ways this could be a bad idea—despite his quip, they are still very much real strangers, and for all she speaks the language and can trace parts of her family tree back here, this is still very much a foreign country—Caroline lets her mouth move ahead of her brain.</p><p>“Okay,” she says, and his smile is slow and enticing. </p><p>—</p><p>“I met a guy,” she tells Meredith in the kitchen; from the stove, Bonnie, the manor’s chef, raises an eyebrow at the words. “Today. On my run.” </p><p>“Wearing that?” Meredith asks distractedly as she scribbles notes on a pad.  </p><p>Bonnie snorts from the stove and hands Caroline a spoonful of something that smells divine but looks atrocious—par for the course, she has found, with the manor’s menu. “Try it,” she instructs.</p><p>“Rude,” Caroline says to Meredith as she blows on the spoonful. “Fair, but still. Rude.” She sips on the black soup Bonnie had handed her and squints. “More garlic,” she decides with a firm nod, handing the spoon back to Bonnie. </p><p>“You say that every time,” Bonnie grumbles, stirring the pot. </p><p>“It’s true every time,” Caroline retorts.</p><p>“So who is he?” Meredith wants to know, dropping the notepad to the table and giving Caroline her full attention. “I need a full name, and ideally a headshot or photo of a valid driver’s license. I did promise your mom I’d take care of you, after all.” </p><p>The mention of Liz Forbes stings. “Nik,” she says as she pushes it aside; Bonnie thrusts a bowl in her hands and orders, “Stir, <em> gently</em>, please.” Caroline obliges and continues, “Great smile, <em> very </em> cute. Dimples. Charming—I think you’d like him, Mere.” She raises an eyebrow at Bonnie. “Not sure you would though.” </p><p>“Charming men are a disease,” Bonnie says flatly and Caroline grins, vindicated. </p><p>“See?” she says, gesturing towards Bonnie with her elbow as she stirs. “He looked <em> super </em> familiar too, like I’ve seen him somewhere before?” She blows her hair out of her face in an exaggerated sigh. “Can’t figure out where though. Maybe, like, a former boy bander or something?” Caroline turns towards Bonnie expectantly. “Quick, list all the members of O-Town.” </p><p>Bonnie raises a single haughty eyebrow. “No.” </p><p>“What did you say his name was?” Meredith wants to know. “Nicholas?”</p><p>“I guess. He just said Nik, and I’m meeting him at the bridge tonight at eight.” She shoots Meredith a questioning glance. “As long as you’re good with that—Fi is usually in bed by then, and I know how you like to be the one to tuck her in and read her her story.” </p><p>Meredith opens her mouth, but Bonnie beats her to it. “I’ll go, and hang back, in case of trouble,” she says firmly, swapping the bowl Caroline is stirring with a new bowl. “Fold that, and be—”</p><p>“—<em>gentle</em>,” Caroline says in unison with her. “I’ve been in a kitchen before, you know.” </p><p>“Uh huh.” Bonnie looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Where is Sir Charming Dimples taking you to dinner then?" </p><p>“It’s called Chestnut &amp; Thyme, I think?”</p><p>Bonnie’s spoon clatters loudly against the pot; Caroline jumps in surprise and looks up to find both women staring at her, Meredith in astonishment and Bonnie in disbelief. “What?”</p><p>“Have you looked anything up about that place?” Bonnie demands. </p><p>“I <em> literally </em> came straight in here after I got home,” Caroline points out practically. “Why? Is it gross?” Her tone turns low and conspiratorial. “Is it like, a mob restaurant or something?”</p><p>“It’s the most expensive restaurant in the region,” Meredith says gently. “By a long shot.” </p><p><em> Oh. </em> </p><p>“Oh,” Caroline says faintly, all thoughts of folding ceased. “How—how expensive are we talking?” Her mind whirls as she tries to do the math—she won’t get her first paycheck until this time next week, and while her expenses have dwindled down to nearly nothing considering that the Fells are providing her with food and lodging, she definitely can’t afford to blow a pretty penny on something as unfortunately trivial as dinner at a fancy restaurant.  </p><p>Meredith hesitates and her heart sinks lower. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have asked you there expecting you to <em> pay</em>,” she says; and Bonnie snorts.  </p><p>“Charming men,” she says again, shaking her head. “A <em> disease</em>.”  </p><p>—</p><p>That night, armed with both the newfound knowledge of the caliber of the restaurant and with the strikingly clear memory of Nik’s face hovering at the forefront of her mind, Caroline puts on the nicest non-cocktail dress she had brought with her to Britain. It’s a deep blue that hits just below her knees, with fluttering sleeves and tiny white daises printed on the fabric; and it had been on deep discount at Nordstrom Rack a scant three days before she had left for Heathrow. She curls her hair, applies careful eyeliner, and slips into her favorite flats. </p><p>Bonnie, who has promised to stay put at the tiny bookstore across the street, gives her a once over before they part. “You look very nice,” she says firmly, giving her a comforting smile. “Really.”  </p><p>Her heartbeat, which had been keeping a steady, even rate, begins to speed up.  </p><p>
  <em> Here goes nothing. </em>
</p><p>Or, she wonders, maybe something.</p><p>—<br/>
<b>tbc</b></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*throws another WIP onto the pile*</p><p>tag yourself, I'm definitely the comment guessing which tiara gets picked.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. All Smiles At Charity Garden Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So uh...hell of a time to write a royal AU! </p><p>You may have noticed that earlier this week, Prince Harry &amp; Meghan Markle gave a sit down interview to Oprah that touched on very sensitive themes such as racism and mental health crises. As it says in the tags, this fic borrows elements from their love story. However, it is still a mostly fluffy, fun, and escapist story; and while there will be elements of classism and general rudeness from the tabloids, that is as far as it will go.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>tomorrows that follow</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>two</strong>
</p><hr/><p><em>The Telegraph<br/></em> <em>July 21, 2020</em></p><p>
  <em>PRINCE NIK ALL SMILES AT CHARITY GARDEN PARTY</em>
</p><p><em>Kathleen Whitley, staff writer<br/></em> <em>Follow: @K_whits</em></p><p>
  <em>Prince Niklaus was all grins at the annual Literacy Garden Party earlier today, though he showed up to the affair, held annually at the Botanical Gardens outside of Avondale, unexpectedly solo. Many royal watchers expected him to bring a date—perhaps his former flame Aurora de Martel—but he demurred at questions regarding his relationship status. He cut quite the impressive figure in his suit, and expressed his delight at his older brother’s upcoming nuptials. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course, we’re all quite thrilled at Katherine’s addition to the family,” he told fellow garden partygoers, “and even more so for our brother’s having found happiness.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The talk, aside from the highly anticipated royal wedding this fall, was of his sister Princess Rebekah’s rumored breakup with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, New York entrepreneur and investor Stefan Salvatore.  Prince Niklaus was, as expected, equally as tight-lipped regarding the princess’s private life as his own, but this reporter has heard that all four royal brothers (including, this author can confirm, Prince Finn, who famously abdicated his position as heir six years ago in favor of archaeology digs deep in Central America) have expressed worry at their only sister’s return to her partying ways. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>CLICK FOR COMMENTS:</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>@JessInManchest: poor Bekah, so unlucky in love! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>@Aleksssss: can’t wait to see Katherine’s dress!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>@NancyFancy: the monarchy should be abolished, lazy twats</em>
</p><p>
  <em>@JessInManchest: @NancyFancy the exit button is right there, babes xx </em>
</p><p>—</p><p>The restaurant is surprisingly empty for a Friday night, and Caroline spots Nik immediately. There is only one other couple present, and they are seated in the furthest corner from the door, deeply engrossed in their own conversation. </p><p>He stands when she makes her way over, and it’s charming; she remembers her father telling her that a chivalrous man would stand upon her entrance, her exit, and every time she stood in between the two. She smiles and when she moves to take her jacket off, a waiter appears from thin air to take it from her hands and whisk it off to an unseen coat room.</p><p>“Fancy place,” she remarks with a laugh that comes out far more nervous than she means. And it <em>is</em> fancy—the walls are a painted white brick, with subtle touches of greenery from the leafy plants that stretch down their shelves near the ceiling. There are candles lit around the restaurant, and the lighting is soft in a way that screams <em>our salmon is divine but only Saudi princes and Silicon Valley CEOs could possibly afford it.</em> </p><p>She picks up her menu and only just manages to tamp down on the tiny choke that nearly escapes her throat. Scratch that, she thinks anxiously, unable to stop herself from biting her lip. Even Tyler Lockwood, her ex from one of the wealthiest families in Atlanta and the richest guy she had ever dated, would have balked at these prices. No wonder the restaurant is nearly empty. </p><p>“So,” Nik says, pulling her out of her shocked reverie. When she looks up, she notices that his menu is sitting to the side, clearly untouched. “What do you do, Caroline?” </p><p>For a moment, she considers evading the question with half-truths—<em>oh, I moved here with family friends, we’ll see where the wind takes me</em>. A wave of embarrassment sweeps over her at the idea of telling this man, who is wearing what she’s like, eighty percent is a custom Tom Ford suit and sitting in what could be the region’s most expensive restaurant, that she’s a failed actress moonlighting as a <em>babysitter</em>.</p><p>But something in his face, in his demeanor, stops her. His elbows are resting on the edge of the table, his hands relaxed and his expression open; but in the depths of his eyes, there is a cautiousness, a hint of wariness, that unravels her tongue and pulls the words from her. </p><p>Caroline sighs and closes her menu. “I’m an actress, but it doesn’t exactly pay the bills. I’m currently working as, um, an au pair. For a family friend.” She smiles ruefully, eyes dropping to the table as her fingers tug nervously at the ends of her hair, the words she’s privately thought for months beginning to escape unchecked. “Everyone thinks it’ll be different for them, you know?” The honesty slips from her unexpectedly, and once it starts, she can’t turn the spigot off. </p><p>“You think, oh sure, breaking into acting is hard, but it won’t be for <em>me</em>,” she continues softly. “You tell yourself, ‘I’m talented, I’ve trained with the best instructors, and I want it more. They’ll see my audition, be completely captivated, and I’ll make it.’” She bites her lip, fiddling idly with her menu. “Or maybe I’m just a narcissist.”</p><p>“I sincerely doubt that.” </p><p>She shoots him a small, grateful smile. “I auditioned for a year in New York. Closest I came to success was as the lead actress’s understudy in an off-off Broadway play for three months. It paid the rent, but not the light.” </p><p>His eyes are intent on her. “What did you do?”</p><p>Caroline blushes and shrugs, dropping her gaze to the table. “Ran out of money and energy,” she says quietly, picking at the menu edge with a fingernail. The admission makes her cheeks burn. “Moved home to regroup, figure out what I wanted to do, and try to pay off some student loans in the meantime.” </p><p>The memory of her Year of Failure, as she had dubbed it to Matt, still makes her stomach swim and when the waiter appears at their table, pen in hand, she finds herself grateful for the interruption. </p><p>After the waiter has once again vanished behind a door marked <em>Employees Only</em>, their orders in hand, Caroline turns her attention back to Nik. “What about you?” she asks, veering the conversation to safer territory. “What kind of work do you do for the government?”</p><p>A shadow flickers across his face. “The non-essential kind, unfortunately,” he says blithely. “Though I’m lobbying for more serious work at the moment.” </p><p>She leans forward interestedly, grateful for the conversation to have shifted towards him. “What would it be?” she wants to know curiously. “Your ideal type of work?”</p><p>Nik settles his elbows on the table and laces his fingers together as he considers her. “Something that directly impacts the people,” he says finally, his head tilting. The movement makes the light from the candles dance across his face, catching the gold in his hair, and she finds herself charmed. “Currently, I’m relegated to a bit of a…” he gestures with his fork, “ceremonial role.” He pauses, seemingly considering her and she almost feels as though she balances on a precipice, teetering, as he decides whether or not to continue. Caroline fights the urge to sit up straighter. </p><p>Whatever options that he is weighing seem to swing in her favor as his gaze warms. “I was a pilot,” he says, “for several years. Search and rescue, in Wales.” Half of his mouth twitches upwards into a tiny smile. “It was easily the most content I’ve been.” </p><p>The words pull out a smile of her own. “Talk to your boss,” she suggests, and for some reason, that makes him laugh. His dimples flash, and her heart flip-flops over itself. “Maybe you can go back to doing that, since it made you so happy.” </p><p>“I’ll take it under consideration,” he promises gravely, before meeting her eyes; his are deep blue and she has to fight to keep her blush at bay. </p><p>— </p><p>It’s easily the best first date she’s been on. </p><p>“I have a confession to make,” Caroline says as they stand in the entrance of the restaurant, waiting for the valet to bring his car around. She motions towards the small bookstore across the street. “I had a friend wait for me there, in case this went, like, <em>really</em> badly.” She turns to him, anticipating the worst, and offers him a self-deprecating half smile. “I’ve seen <em>Taken</em>, you know.”</p><p>But he does not look irritated or angry—instead, one of his eyebrows simply arches as he smooths his coat collar. </p><p>“Can’t say I’ve ever been compared to a murderer,” he muses thoughtfully. “It’s not entirely flattering, but can’t say I blame you.” He leans forward conspiratorially and she catches a whiff of what smells like very expensive cologne, and isn’t <em>that</em> flattering. “I, too, have seen <em>Taken</em>.” He reaches out for the door of the car that has just pulled up—a sleek Range Rover, she notes, impressed—and tilts his head just slightly towards. “May I offer you, and your friend, a ride home?” </p><p>As though summoned, Bonnie appears on the other side of the street, her face pulled into a frown. </p><p>“Hold that thought,” Caroline says before darting to the front of the car and waving once. Bonnie’s expression clears, and she quickly crosses the street; Caroline can’t resist meeting her partway. </p><p>“He’s going to take us home,” she whispers hurriedly into Bonnie’s hair before letting go and turning back to Nik. “That would be great, thanks!”</p><p>Bonnie’s fingers are tight around her forearm. “Caroline,” she hisses, her expression turning troubled, but Caroline is already climbing into the front seat and rattling off the address. </p><p>“It’s gated, so you can just drop us at the end of the driveway, and we can walk up,” she tells him as he pulls away smoothly from the curb. </p><p>It doesn’t take them long to reach the entrance to the manor’s private driveway, Bonnie uncharacteristically quiet in the backseat. Caroline finds herself nervously chattering, filling up the silence with small talk until Nik pulls into the small space in front of the modest iron gate and parks. </p><p>The back door of the SUV opens and shuts just as quickly as Bonnie hops out, quickly vanishing through the gate. Caroline rolls her eyes at her friend’s dramatics before turning back to Nik. </p><p>“I had a nice time,” she offers. </p><p>“As did I.” He picks up her hand and brushes his lips over her knuckles, never once breaking eye contact with her. It sends a shiver down her spine. “I would enjoy seeing you again,” he continues, letting go of her hand and handing her a slip of paper. “If you’d like.” </p><p>She holds the scrap of paper gingerly in her fingers. “I’d like,” she says softly, and before she can do something embarrassing, like lean in and kiss his cheek the way she wants to, she opens the door and hops out. “Thanks for dinner,” she says with as flirtatious a smile as she can summon. </p><p>As she makes her way up the long drive, she looks down at the piece of paper in her hands. </p><p><em>Nik Mikaelson</em>, it says in elegant script. The name rings a bell in the back of her mind, but she forgets to wonder about its familiarity when she spies that there, underneath his name, is his phone number. </p><p>— </p><p>“Way to be rude,” Caroline chastises Bonnie as she pulls her jacket off and drapes it over a chair. “You took off like a bat out of hell. What was that all about?”</p><p>Bonnie shoots her a disgruntled look as she knots her apron strings behind her back. “You know who that is?” she demands, grabbing a mixing bowl. “Seriously, Care. Do you have any idea? Did he even give you his full name?”</p><p>Caroline blinks, vaguely stung. “No, I don’t, and yeah, he did,” she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, did you figure out which One Direction member he is? Oh, or maybe he’s from Oasis—” her nose wrinkles as she muses aloud, “No, that can’t be it, no unibrow, and he’s a little young—”</p><p>“Caroline,” Bonnie cuts in. “He’s not a singer. Seriously? You don’t know?” She shakes her head and mutters, more to herself than to Caroline, “Must live under a freaking <em>rock</em>.” </p><p>“Um, <em>sorry</em>, it’s not like I was auditioning all day and bartending all night for a year,” Caroline shoots back, stung. “I was, ya know, a little more worried about paying the bills than picking up <em>US Weekly</em>. Stop being cryptic, Bonnie. Are you gonna spill, or are you making me Google?” A frisson of fear zips through her stomach. “What, is he a serial killer? Let out on good behavior?”</p><p>Bonnie’s shoulders drop and she sighs, the sound heavy as though she doesn’t relish sharing the information she’s withholding. “Care,” she says quietly, “he’s a prince.” </p><p><em>That</em> draws a bark of a laugh from her. “Yeah, okay,” she says with a snort. But Bonnie doesn’t laugh with her, her face drawn and her mouth a firm, straight line. “Bonnie, why would a prince be, like, <em>hanging out</em> in Avondale?”</p><p>Bonnie sighs again, wisps of layered brown hair falling from her messy ponytail. “There’s an estate,” she says quietly. “Not that far from here. One of the family’s country homes, I think. I didn’t put it together this morning, because what are the odds, right?” She shrugs. “He must be staying there.”</p><p>Caroline stares at her in disbelief. “But—I mean, Bonnie. No. He can’t— no.” She shakes her head, as though she can will the answer into submission through sheer force. “I mean—British royalty lives in London, right?</p><p>Even as she says the words, her conversation with Nik from that morning whispers back in her ears. He was from London, he had said, <em>but I’m here working for a few more weeks.</em> </p><p>A government employee, he had said. </p><p>A largely ceremonial role, he had said. </p><p>
  <em>Oh my god. </em>
</p><p>“Bonnie,” she says faintly, “do you know if the prince you’re thinking of—do you know if he was, um, a pilot? In Wales, maybe?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t really follow them that much.” Bonnie chews on her lower lip. “Most of what I know was learned unwillingly.” At Caroline’s disbelieving expression, she shrugs and points to herself. “Canadian. Technically, his parents are my head of state, the twats.” She redirects her attention back to Caroline. “I’m Googling.” </p><p>Caroline makes no move to stop her as Bonnie pulls her phone out, her fingers flying over the touchscreen. </p><p>Seconds later, hours later, an eternity later, Bonnie holds the screen out to her. “It’s him, Care,” she says, her voice infinitely more gentle than it had just been. </p><p>And there he is, on the cover of an old <em>People</em>, dimples framing a perfect, blindingly white smile. A smile she had just sat across from for two hours. </p><p>
  <em>Prince Nik: Meet England’s Most Eligible Bachelor! </em>
</p><p>Her head swims. “Oh,” she says softly, sitting in a nearby chair and setting Bonnie’s phone down on the table. “Well.”</p><p>“Charming men,” Bonnie mutters under her breath. “Fuckers.” </p><p>—</p><p>“So what are you going to do?” Meredith asks her the next morning as Caroline twists Fiona’s hair into a tight bun. Fiona watches them interestedly as she clutches her stuffed elephant, the soft pink of her ballet tutu spread across her lap as she sits in her small chair. </p><p>Through a mouthful of bobby pins, Caroline shrugs. Near her feet, Olive looks curiously from Meredith to Caroline back again before settling her head in her paws and letting her eyes drift shut. </p><p>“Are you going to text him?” </p><p>Caroline rolls her eyes at Meredith in the mirror, the bobby pins faltering as she clenches them between her teeth. </p><p>Meredith tilts her head thoughtfully. “It was very gentlemanly of him to leave the choice up to you,” she points out. “No pressure if you want to walk away.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her palm. “Do you want to walk away?” </p><p>“Ouch,” Fiona complains; Caroline immediately drops the strand of hair she had been holding and takes the bobby pins out of her mouth, setting them down on the tiny vanity. </p><p>“Sorry, Fi,” she says, smoothing her fingers over the spot she had pulled too hard. “Let’s try again, okay?”</p><p>Meredith waits a beat, then raises her eyebrows at Caroline in the mirror. Olive lets out a soft snuffle, her eyes still contentedly shut. </p><p>“I don’t know, okay?” She slides a bobby pin into the small bun at the top of Fiona’s head, careful to be gentle. “I spent all of last night knee-deep in the Daily Mail comment section—”</p><p>“Yikes,” Meredith says under her breath. </p><p>“—and like, up until Katherine Pierce got that ring on her finger, they were <em>excoriating</em> her, Mere. And not only is she stunning, the closest whiff of a scandal she’s had was like, some drunken exits from clubs.” Caroline winces. “And she still looked great, even after too many gin and tonics.”</p><p>She shakes her head, dread pooling in her stomach. “Why couldn’t he just be a normal guy?” she asks the air wistfully. “That would make this such a no brainer.” </p><p>Meredith’s face is sympathetic. “My mom had a tape of his parents’ wedding, you know,” she says thoughtfully. “She bought it from like, QVC or something, and I watched it when I was, what, maybe six? And I was completely fascinated by the idea of a real life princess.” Her gaze turns nostalgic and almost fond. “I thought her dress was so lovely at the time, and in retrospect—it was. At the time.”</p><p>Caroline glances up from her final bobby pin. “You think I should text him, huh.”</p><p>Meredith points at her. “I think you should do whatever you want,” she says firmly, “but if you like him, I think it would be a shame to let something he can’t control dissuade you.”</p><p>“His brother abdicated,” Caroline points out; the Daily Mail headlines she had seen during her tabloid deep dive had been particularly nasty about that: <em>FINN FINISHED</em>, one had screamed in bold, blocky print; <em>FINN FUMBLES FUTURE REIGN</em> said another, above a photo of the man in question, his face visibly unhappy atop his formal clothing. </p><p>“I remember,” Meredith says, “and it was widely acknowledged at the time by all <em>serious</em> parties—” she stresses the word <em>serious</em> and raises an eyebrow at Caroline as though to say, <em>not the Daily Mail</em>, “—as the right move for both Finn and for the U.K.” She tilts her head. “Your guy won’t be king, if that’s what you’re worried about. His father and brother would both have to—” she glances down at Fiona, who doesn’t seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention to their conversation. “You know.” She gestures vaguely in the area of her neck, grimacing. “And that’s unlikely. I don’t think they’re even allowed to travel together.”</p><p>Caroline snaps her fingers and points at Meredith. “It’s that— that right there. <em>That</em> would bother me.”</p><p>“Not being able to travel with his father and brother?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>. Being told what I can and can’t do!”</p><p>“Right.” Understanding lights in Meredith’s eyes. “Yes, it would take a special person to walk that line.” </p><p>“Seriously, Mere.” Caroline gestures with her free hand. “You know Katherine Pierce has to drink out of a teacup a certain way? Like, she has to hold it with her thumb facing some way, and she can’t close her own car door, or just go grocery shopping without causing an incident.” </p><p>“Then don’t text him,” Meredith offers softly. </p><p>Caroline sighs heavily. </p><p>“Ah,” Meredith says. “But you want to.” </p><p>She scowls. “Yeah, okay? Yeah. I want to.”</p><p>“Then what’s the harm in dating? Dating doesn’t mean you’re marrying the guy.”</p><p>“Because—okay, say we date. Then we break up, and then maybe I get an acting job. Then the narrative becomes, <em>Caroline Forbes dated a prince to further her career, the heinous bi—</em>” she glances down at Fiona and clears her throat. “—<em>witch</em>, which would be entirely untrue but would stick like glue to me forever.”</p><p>“Okay,” Meredith says slowly. “But what if you don’t break up?”</p><p>Caroline rolls her eyes. “That’s an entirely different conversation and you know it, Mere.” </p><p>Meredith holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Fair enough. Just...make sure you don’t do something you regret. Or do nothing, and regret it too.” </p><p>“Got it,” she says crisply before leaning forward and squeezing Fiona’s tiny shoulders. “All done, Fi. Whatcha think?”</p><p>Fiona turns her head from one side to the other, her brown eyes critical. “Okay,” she decrees, hopping off her small bench and primly smoothing out her tutu. “I’m ready for ballet, Caroline.” She holds her tiny out for Caroline to take. </p><p>Caroline turns to Meredith. “Wanna come?”</p><p>“Yes!” Fiona shouts, dropping Caroline’s hand and beelining for Meredith. “Mommy, please come!”</p><p>Meredith looks longingly at the little girl who has just thrown her small arms around her knees. “I wish I could, Fi,” she says mournfully, smoothing the top of Fiona’s hair, careful not to disturb the bun. “But I’m covered in paperwork. Next week, I promise I’ll come.” </p><p>Fiona’s arms drop and her shoulders slump slightly. “Promise?”</p><p>“Cross my heart.” </p><p>Meredith walks them to the elaborate front doors of the manor where she drops to her knees and buttons up Fiona’s thin jacket. “When you come home, I want to see everything you learned,” she says seriously. “So pay extra close attention, okay?”</p><p>Fiona nods gravely before retaking Caroline’s hand; when Meredith stands, she raises an eyebrow at Caroline. “For what it’s worth,” she says casually, “I think you should text him, and that’s my final answer.” </p><p>“I’ll think about it,” Caroline grumbles before letting Fiona pull her out of the door.</p><p>—</p><p>The small studio is nondescript and off the main road; as they enter, Fiona’s hand tightens on Caroline’s. They aren’t late to class, but the cubbies are already filled and Fiona’s eyes widen as she hands Caroline her jacket and exchanges her tennis shoes for her pointe shoes. </p><p>Caroline squats down so that she’s at eye level with Fiona. “You’re going to be great,” she whispers assuredly as she helps Fiona slip her feet into the pointe shoes. “Promise.” </p><p>Fiona nods and whispers back, “Don’t leave, okay?” before she runs off to join the other girls on the other side of the room. Caroline watches her for a moment before turning to where the mothers are standing in one corner. She offers them a tentative smile before standing on the outskirts of the group. </p><p>It’s almost the end of class when she hears it. </p><p>“Heard she’s a failed actress,” a woman whispers from behind her. Caroline’s shoulders tense and her spine straightens as her jaw sets. <em>I will not turn around</em>, she thinks resolutely, <em>I will not turn around. </em></p><p>“Probably shagging the father,” another voice says sagely, “while the mother is too busy working to notice, poor dear.” </p><p>“Men are so predictable,” the first voice says, not bothering to whisper now. </p><p>Her cheeks flush, and she’s debating the merits of saying something when Fiona runs over, her face pink and eyes sparkling. “Caroline!” she squeals, “I love ballet!”</p><p>She manages a smile at Fiona’s obvious joy. “Good,” she says, pleased when her voice doesn’t shake. “Ready to go home?”</p><p>Fiona nods happily and skips out the door; Caroline casts a stony gaze over at the group of mothers before whisking out the door, her jaw tight and chin high. </p><p>— </p><p>“Did you figure out what you want to do?” Meredith asks, handing her a glass of wine after dinner. Bonnie settles in across the small circular table across from them, eyebrows lifting. </p><p>Caroline sighs. “I’m not texting him,” she says firmly before taking a long sip. “The risk-reward ratio just isn’t in his favor.”</p><p>“Hmm,” is all Meredith says, while Bonnie eyes her, her expression unreadable. </p><p>“What? It’s not!”</p><p>“Okay,” Meredith says mildly. “If that’s your decision, it’s your decision.” </p><p>“I just—can’t afford to have a failed relationship with a royal haunting me the rest of my life.”</p><p>“What if you never make it big?” Bonnie asks bluntly. “What then?”</p><p>Something foreign and unsure twists in her stomach. “I can’t think like that,” she mumbles. </p><p>“I think what Bonnie is trying to say,” Meredith cuts in with a stern look at Bonnie, “is that you don’t want to regret not doing something. It’s entirely your decision, but make sure you feel like it’s the right one.” </p><p>“But you have to think of it,” Bonnie says, ignoring the look Meredith sends her way. “It’s a real risk in your choice of career—what if it never pans out, and you’re ninety wondering if you should have just said fuck it and dated that prince?” One of her eyebrows arches. “He’s a <em>prince</em>, Care.” </p><p>“You’ve changed your tune,” Caroline points out tartly. “What happened to ‘charming men are a disease?’”</p><p>“They are. It’s not about <em>him</em>—I just don’t want you to have any regrets. Even if it’s this one.” She makes a face before shrugging idly. “I vote you go on at least another date with him. Get another expensive dinner out of it.” </p><p>Meredith rolls her eyes and turns back towards Caroline. “Two votes for texting,” she says seriously. “But yours is the only one that matters.” </p><p>Her hand slips in her pocket, where the scrap of paper with its elegant script has been burning a hole all day. Her finger slides over the paper’s edges as she chews her lip, her meticulous pros and cons list ravaged by the women in front of her. </p><p>
  <em>No regrets.</em>
</p><p>“I’ll text him,” she decides with a firm nod. “Just to see where it goes. But that's <em>nowhere</em>, and I have to defend an old fling during my Oscar campaign, I <em>will</em> blame the both of you. By name.” </p><p>“Feel free,” Meredith chirps brightly, holding her glass out for Bonnie and Caroline to clink their own against. “To free dinners.” </p><p>“Bought by princes,” Bonnie adds sardonically. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Caroline grumbles. </p><p>— </p><p>It’s nearly eleven pm when Caroline finally drags herself into bed, her phone hovering at three percent battery. She pulls the piece of paper out of her pocket and stares at it, her finger running a line over the phone screen. </p><p>What does a girl even say to a prince? </p><p>She types out and deletes three greeting drafts (<em>Hi!</em> — too enthusiastic, absolutely not; <em>Hey there</em>—God, is she twelve? Ugh, horrific; <em>Remember me? </em>—idiotic, of course he does, it was only yesterday) before gritting her teeth and saying out loud, “Jesus, Forbes. It’s a text, not a nuclear bomb you have to rewire.” </p><p>Properly chastised, her fingers begin to tap at the screen. <em>The melatonin worked</em>, she types out, pushing aside the doubt. It did, and it was his recommendation—there should be no doubt of her identity when he received the text. <em>Slept till 8,</em> she continues,<em> a new record.</em> Before she can overthink it any further, she hits send, the bubble turning blue as the message flies off into the ether. </p><p>For several moments, nothing happens; her heart sinks and she straightens in bed, frowning. “This isn’t high school,” she scolds herself. “You’re both adults, it’s late at night, and he has a <em>job</em>, Caroline. Stop being desperate.”</p><p>With a firm nod, she places her phone face down on the nightstand, determined not to look again until morning. </p><p>It’s a good plan, but one she forgets entirely when her phone buzzes several seconds later. At the sound, she reaches over to her nightstand to eagerly unlock her phone.  </p><p><em>Here to help</em>, his reply says. </p><p>The high his response had elicited is quickly replaced by the sinking realization that she has nothing to say in return. </p><p>Her phone buzzes again. </p><p><em>Fancy a lunch tomorrow?</em> </p><p>Before she can agonize over it, before her brain can pick at a decision she’s already made, Caroline types out, <em>yes</em> and hits send. </p><p>— </p><p>
  <strong>tbc.</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Would you Google your royal date, y/n</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Prince Preoccupied</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>tomorrows that follow</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>three</strong>
</p><hr/><p><em>The Sun<br/></em> <em>July 30, 2020</em></p><p>
  <em>PRINCE PREOCCUPIED!</em>
</p><p><em>Christine Tyler, lifestyle editor<br/></em> <em>Follow: @ChristineTyler</em></p><p>
  <em>While visiting his patronage, The Mayhew, earlier this week, Prince Niklaus was visibly distracted—and while palace officials have refused to comment, this author can confirm that he and longtime on-again, off-again girlfriend Aurora de Martel haven’t spoken in months, confirming that this latest split may indeed be permanent. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Aurora is very dedicated to her charity work,” our source says, “and while she will always consider Niklaus a close friend, that is all that they are.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The royal family, of course, remains as tight-lipped as ever about the romantic lives of its members. However, sources say the prince, while focused on his own charity work and the preparations for his elder brother’s wedding later this year, has been preoccupied as of late. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would expect Elijah’s wedding is, while exciting, really emphasizing Niklaus’s own solitary state,” says relationship guru Libby Olsen. Olsen predicts that a serious relationship, and possibly even an engagement, is in the not-so-distant future for the second in line to the throne. “These things tend to happen quickly,” Olsen says. “Once one member of a family settles down, the others follow suit, even in royalty.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Follow @TheSun for the latest in Lifestyle! </em>
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</p><p>— </p><p>“Is that what you’re wearing?” Bonnie asks skeptically, her expression incredulous as she eyes Caroline critically. </p><p>Caroline looks down at her outfit—what she had thought was the very sensible combination of leggings, running shoes, and a long sleeved t-shirt with large white NYU letters stamped on the front. “Um, yeah? He said to dress comfortably, this is comfortable!” </p><p>“It’s athleisure,” Bonnie counters, crossing her arms and arching her eyebrows. “Did he give you any idea on what you’re doing? Because what if he meant comfortable as in, <em>not a ball gown</em>?” She wrinkles her nose. “Who knows how these people think? They’re one percenters. What if, to them, comfortable means off the rack Chanel instead of custom, and you end up going to like, a museum or something looking a hot mess?”</p><p>Scowling, Caroline pulls the sleeves of her shirt down over her wrists and huffs. “He said, and I quote: <em>dress comfortably and bring sunglasses.</em> That doesn’t exactly scream ‘state dinner’ to me, does it to <em>you</em>, Bon?” She emphasizes <em>state dinner</em> with exaggerated air quotes. </p><p>“You look like you’re taking Olive to the park.”</p><p>“For all I know, we’re going to a park.” </p><p>“He can’t just <em>go to the park</em>, Caroline, he’s one of the most famous men in the country—”</p><p>“Is that what you’re wearing?” Meredith asks from the doorway, her scrubs wrinkled and her dark hair falling out of its haphazard ponytail as she discards her keys into the small bowl near the door. “On a date?”</p><p>Caroline throws her hands up in the air, exasperation getting the best of her. “He said to dress comfortably! I’m just doing what he told me to do!” </p><p>Meredith holds her hands up in mock surrender, and it’s then that Caroline notices the bags under her eyes. Guilt flares and she winces, reaching forward to take the folders in Meredith’s hands. “Sorry, Mere. How was work?” </p><p>“Exhausting. Where’s he taking you?” Meredith’s brown eyes narrow, though one corner of her mouth twitches upwards. “Royal or not, I need departure and arrival times, just in case.”</p><p>“Leaving in—oh shit, in five minutes. Coming back at like, seven I think?” She darts over to the sofa and grabs her bag, double checking for the presence of her wallet and sunglasses before grabbing her phone from the small side table. </p><p>“Do you need a ride? David can pick you up, and Bonnie, would you—”</p><p>“Nik’s actually picking me up,” Caroline says, her cheeks heating, and both women stop in their tracks to turn to look at her with varying degrees of surprise on their faces. </p><p>“Really,” Meredith says, a small smile breaking through on her face. “That’s nice of him.” Her gaze turns thoughtful. “Considering all his resources.”</p><p>“Seems pretty standard to me,” Bonnie says pointedly. “The bar is on the floor for men, I swear to god.” </p><p>“I’m just saying,” Meredith defends mildly, “given what all is at his disposal, it’s a lovely thought that he’s picking you up himself.” </p><p>Bonnie shakes her head and turns to Caroline. “If he takes you to a park, <em>given his resources</em>—” she shoots a disgruntled look over at Meredith, “—I give you permission to write a tell-all in the tabloid of your choice.”</p><p>“A park could be a cute date idea,” Caroline protests, but stops short when both Meredith and Bonnie shoot her the same unimpressed look. “God, fine, I retract my previous statement; screw the park, it’s the French Riviera or we riot.” </p><p>As though summoned, her phone buzzes in her hand, his name flashing across the screen. Her heart skips several beats, butterflies begin to swirl in her stomach; and Caroline wonders just what exactly it is she’s signed up for. </p><p>—</p><p>It’s the same sleek black Range Rover from Friday, and she’s immediately relieved to see that Nik, too, is dressed down—though, given her newfound knowledge of his status, she would bet that his shirt cost a semester of tuition at NYU. It’s more than a little intimidating, but he smiles when he sees her, and it drives away any thought of lingering self-doubt.</p><p>“Hi,” she chirps as she hops into the front seat. “Inquiring minds want to know— are we going to a park?” </p><p>One eyebrow arches elegantly. “Afraid not,” he says dryly. “Perhaps on the next date.” </p><p>Her heart trips over itself at the idea of a <em>next date</em> and she replies brightly, “Let me know if I should bring Olive then, next time. She loves to chase squirrels, the little hell spawn.” She fastens her seatbelt and looks to him expectantly. “So where are we going?”</p><p>Nik glances over at her, a small smile lingering over his mouth. “Have you ever been sailing?” </p><p>His smile proves contagious; she feels herself reflecting it back to him before his words register. She blinks in surprise. “Um, no. Can’t say that I have.”</p><p>The grin he shoots her is part boyish excitement, part mischievousness. “There’s an inlet to the coast,” he tells her, “not far from here, just a quick drive. A close friend has a private dock, if you’re agreeable.” </p><p>“I’m always good for an adventure,” she says gamely, settling in her seat as he pulls away from the house. </p><p>Butterflies flutter in her stomach as the street signs fly by, a nondescript car appearing a respectable distance behind them in her side mirror. She chews her lip, and debates on telling him that his secret’s out. Surely he deserves to know—and, she reasons as the trees slowly vanish and are replaced by open highways, he won’t be surprised. He did give her his full name, after all. </p><p>After all, what kind of responsible, twenty-first century woman doesn’t at least do a quick Google search of a complete stranger before getting into his car alone? </p><p>As they pull into the private dock’s parking lot, a pristine white sailboat bobbing gently nearby in the small waves that lap the shallow shoreline, Caroline fiddles with the seatbelt strap anxiously, indecision still swirling in her chest. Nik shoots her a grin before he smoothly exits the car, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses; and it makes her heartbeat speed up as she follows. </p><p>Now that she knows what to look for, it’s easy to spot the bodyguards that hang in the background, watchful without being obvious as they linger just outside her peripheral vision as he hands her a lifejacket. Caroline thinks she recognizes them as the other couple from Chestnut &amp; Thyme and the weight of his status, of <em>him</em>, slowly begins to creep across her skin. The feeling has staying power, and she chews on the inside of her cheek as she slides her arms into the life jacket. <em>A royal</em>—even on a date with someone as outwardly harmless as herself, he can’t be alone. </p><p>The idea ricochets through her body, her muscles tensing, and Nik glances up from where he is adjusting the fastenings on the life jacket, his fingers skimming the fabric of her shirt. “Don’t worry,” he offers, misreading her reaction as the evidence of nerves. “I’m very good with a boat.” </p><p>She almost offers a correction—<em>it’s not me, it’s you and your status</em>— but his smile, all dimples and natural charm, has her relaxing despite herself. </p><p>“I’ll have you know that <em>I</em> am a Pisces,” she says instead, grinning back at him. “We’re very water-savvy. I’ve been swimming since I could walk.” </p><p>That makes him laugh, a low chuckle under his breath that makes her stomach flip. “Good to know.” </p><p>The boat is just ahead, rocking gently in the water, the small dock hidden from the nearby road between a line of large, leafy trees, their branches thick with bright green leaves. Caroline follows him towards it, her eyes lingering a moment too long on the way the fabric of his dry-fit shirt shows off the line of muscle down his back. </p><p>And just as her luck would have it, Nik turns at the exact moment she’s ogling him—<em>admiring</em> him, she corrects internally, her cheeks heating as her gaze drops to the ground. When she sneaks a look back up through her lashes a half-second later, the ghost of a smirk is lingering at his mouth as they approach the end of the pier.</p><p>But he doesn’t say anything as he boards the sailboat, his long legs taking him from the dock to the ship’s starboard side, landing easily on the deck in a single step. </p><p>Nik turns and extends his hand to her; she doesn’t hesitate as she takes it. </p><p>His grip is firm and his hand warm as he pulls her onto the deck, but she only has the briefest of moments to enjoy the feel of his fingers wrapped around hers before he lets go.</p><p>“Ready?” he asks, and before she can overthink it, before she can convince herself that she’s agreeing to anything more than a day of sailing with a cute guy, she says, “Ready.”</p><p>—</p><p>Sailing, as it turns out, is not Caroline’s forte. </p><p>It doesn’t stop her from loving it. </p><p>There’s an openness, a freedom, that seems to dance along the same wind that lifts through the sails and through her hair, and she doesn’t even mind the saltwater that stings her skin. There’s no way the boat is moving any faster than a very slow car, but somehow it still feels like flying and she has to bite back the laughter that bubbles up in her chest. </p><p>“I’m terrible at this,” she calls to Nik, who is tying the thick line on the other side of the deck. At the sound of her voice, he glances up and grins, her delight clearly contagious.</p><p>“Grab hold of that line,” he calls back, gesturing towards the dangling rope near her side. As she reaches for it, a particularly rough wave slaps into the side of the boat and sends her pitching unsteadily forward, her knees knocking hard into the deck and her free hand grasping for purchase but coming up empty. For a moment that’s a heartbeat too long, she thinks she might be about to fall face first into the Atlantic.</p><p>But in the nick of time, strong arms wrap around her waist and haul her back, a hint of the same expensive cologne from the restaurant wafting into the air. </p><p>“Steady,” Nik says, his voice deep in her ear. “Don’t let me lose you to the ocean.” </p><p>The waves calm but her heartbeat doesn’t; Caroline can only manage a squeaky, “Um, thanks,” in response before she reaches again for the line. </p><p>But once she has it in her hands, she has no idea what to do with it. He had made it look so easy on the other side of the deck, his knots tight and expertly neat; but now that she has to recreate them, she finds herself at a loss. </p><p>His hand covers hers as she tugs on the line, his fingers curling around her knuckles as he adjusts her grip. “Like this,” he instructs, leaning forward. His chest presses into her back, siphoning the slight chill in the sea air as his arms cover hers to guide her actions. The sail unfurls and when it catches the wind, Nik lets go, turning to head towards the rudder. The absence of him surprises her with its acuteness. </p><p>The mainsail unfurls, a bright white against the deep blue of the sky, and as it catches the wind, Nik leaves her to cling to the line as he goes to pilot the tiller. </p><p>The ocean around them calms as the wind carries them further out, the deck shrinking until it’s barely visible, a tiny dot in the distance. </p><p>It’s all so beautiful—the peace on his face as he settles across from her, the dark navy of the ocean contrasting against a cloudless, brilliant blue of the sky; and the only sound interrupting the cheerful beats of Stevie Wonder playing from below deck that of the white-tipped waves crashing against the side of the sailboat—that she can’t hold the secret in any longer.  </p><p>“I have a confession to make,” Caroline blurts out as he lounges against the lines on the port side of the deck, looking for all the world as though he hasn’t a single care—which, she reminds herself, he probably doesn’t. His wayfarers slip down his nose as he looks over at her, his expression unreadable. </p><p>“Go on,” Nik says, and she gets the uncomfortable feeling that he has an—an <em>expectation</em> about what she’s about to say. It makes her wonder how many women have feigned ignorance with him before. </p><p>“I wasn’t going to Google you,” she begins hesitantly, her fingers plucking anxiously at the dangling life jacket straps that brush her rips. “I knew you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place your face, and then my friend Bonnie—well, she recognized you and told me who you are when we got home.” She bites her lip and looks down. “I didn’t know at dinner on Friday, but I knew today.” </p><p>His head tilts, and she wonders if the sun bathes all royals in loving, golden light; if it’s part of their genetic code to have only good angles, or if it’s just him. “And?” he asks, the sunglasses hiding his reaction. “Your verdict?”</p><p>She can’t tell if this is going well or going terribly, and, almost unthinkingly, throws caution further to the wind. “I almost didn’t text you,” she tells him instead of answering directly, fighting the urge to fidget under a gaze that still feels unwavering despite being hidden behind sunglasses. </p><p>“Yet here you are.” </p><p>Caroline sighs, unable to hold it in any longer. “I liked the guy I had dinner with. I went from there,” she says quietly. “So... yeah. Here I am.” She pauses, carefully considering her next words. “You didn’t say anything about it. About your family.” </p><p>For a long moment, Nik is silent, as though he too, feels the ground shifting under their feet as it turns to sand. “It’s polarizing, the name,” he says finally. “It attracts the wrong kind of people and runs the right ones off. The only people who are willing to endure are the ones you want around the least. Anyone worth the time takes their leave as soon as they hear the name Mikaelson. That and the family—the status. It proves to be too much, most of the time.” He shrugs, expression unreadable. “I found it refreshing, that you didn’t know.” </p><p>She snorts. “You can thank a grueling schedule of auditioning and bartending for that. For the past year, I barely had enough time to sleep, much less peruse the latest issue of <em>People</em>.” </p><p>His face doesn't change, but he gives a humorless laugh at her words. “I suppose,” he says quietly, “though I’m loath to thank your struggles.” </p><p>Caroline hesitates, a brief internal debate playing out before she ventures cautiously, “How do you know I didn’t know? I mean—not to shoot myself in the foot here or anything, but how are you so sure I’m not like, a secret reporter or something? That I won’t sell a story to some gross tabloid?”</p><p>That makes him smile, though it’s tinged with something akin to self-deprecation. “I have a very protective team,” he tells her, and the smile turns into a smirk. “<em>They</em> Googled <em>you</em>.” Nik tilts his head as the smirk widens. “I did not see the results, although I was told you wrote a very passionate letter to the editor of your uni’s student newspaper regarding—” </p><p>“Oh god,” Caroline groans, her head dropping into her hands; he laughs but continues undaunted, “—the environmental benefits of meatless Mondays.”</p><p>“Look,” she says from her face’s hiding spot in her palms, “it’s been <em>proven</em> to help not only the environment but <em>also</em> personal health—” she straightens, facing him and secretly thrilling at the laughter on his face, “—and I guess that makes us even then. A Google for a Google.”</p><p>“Indeed. And I must tell you, I am quite prepared to give up meat on Mondays,” he says somberly, his mouth twitching. </p><p>For a moment they are both quiet, the only sound between them the crashing of the waves and the soft breeze ruffling the sails. </p><p>With a timidity entirely foreign to her, Caroline says softly, “If you don’t wanna, you know, see me again, I get it. I didn’t read, like, a ton of the articles that came up, but I get that you’re about to have a lot of eyes on you—er, a lot <em>more</em> eyes on you, anyway.” She gestures aimlessly. “You know, with the wedding and everything. It’s probably easier to not rock the boat, and oh God, that’s a terrible pun, but you get what I’m saying.” </p><p>Caroline is acutely aware of the way Nik is watching her—no longer laughing, his expression serious as a tiny frown furrowing his brows. </p><p>“You’re right,” he says slowly, and though it was her suggestion, she can’t help the way her heart plummets into her feet at his agreement. “It is probably easier to not rock the boat.” </p><p>She nods once, a jerk of her chin downwards as her stomach plummets in disappointment and says, “We tried, and agreed it wouldn’t work so—” </p><p>“Caroline,” Nik cuts in gently, “You misunderstand.” His gaze on her is steady. “I would like to keep seeing you, despite the alternative’s ease.” He tilts his head slightly, the gold in his hair catching the sunbeams. “If you’d like.” </p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“Oh,” she says softly, her eyes dropping to her lap.</p><p>“Of course, we can always part here as friends, if you prefer,” he continues; and Caroline doesn’t look up, her stomach swooping as she turns the options over in her mind. <em>Friends</em>—something in her rebels at the idea. “I would not hold it against you.” </p><p>No, she does not want to be his friend. </p><p>“No,” she says, looking up and meeting his gaze firmly. “I—no.” Something flashes in his eyes, so quickly she can’t make out what it is, and he looks at her from over the rims of sunglasses that have slid down his nose. “I’d like to keep you seeing you too.” </p><p>At the words, Nik smiles widely, his dimples flashing; and she thinks, <em>oh Forbes, you are so sunk.</em> “There are ways,” he tells her as he leans back against the side of the boat, “to stay hidden, for a while. To allow you to keep your anonymity.” He pauses, then adds, a touch delicately, “Your freedom, if you will.” </p><p>Nerves spark at the word <em>freedom</em>—the thing that, once the press discovers them, she will lose entirely. But even as Caroline imagines the worst—trashy headlines, unflattering candids, interviews with middle school frenemies—she finds that their weight isn’t enough to make her want to take her decision back. “Right,” she says slowly. “Like...being low key.” </p><p>He gestures at their surroundings. Despite her knowledge that there are two highly trained guards lingering close by—probably in a nearby, nondescript boat that she hasn’t looked for—it does feel like they are entirely alone. “In the absence of an entire ocean,” he says with a smirk, “there are certain places we—my family, that is—have set agreements. They allow us our privacy and utilization of their backdoors or lower level car parks, and in return, we patronize their businesses.”</p><p>“So you mean like—secret dating.” </p><p>That makes him grin, the expression mischievous. “If you’d like to call it that.” </p><p>“How long, do you think?”</p><p>Nik looks off to the side, and she wonders if he’s remembering the same old headlines that she had dug up two nights prior—<em>Catty Kathy: Why Palace Staff Hates Katherine Pierce</em>—when he says, “As long as you want.” He pauses, then corrects, “As long as we are able.” </p><p>She hums thoughtfully. “I think I’d be down for that.” </p><p>His eyes are sharp on her. “Glad to hear it,” he says quietly, and as the dock appears in the not-so-far distance, Caroline finds her stomach sinking with disappointment at the nearing conclusion of their date.</p><p>The boat drifts alongside the shore until it bumps up against the pier; once the lines are loosened and tied back to the dock, Caroline stands and takes a final moment to savor the slightly unsteady feeling of standing on the ocean.</p><p>“Any advice?” she asks, accepting the hand he has offered to balance her sea legs as she hops off of the boat and back onto solid ground. “Should I buy more baseball caps and bigger sunglasses?”</p><p>His mouth twitches in amusement. “Not unadvisable,” he says gravely. “Though may I also suggest, in the potential absence of hats, hooded sweatshirts?” His fingers brush the back of her shirt’s flat and distinctly hood-less collar, sending goosebumps down her arms and a hot streak of lust through her veins. </p><p>“Yeah,” she breathes, exhaling as he lets go of her hand and makes to open her car door for her. “You definitely can.”</p><p>The grin he gives her—knowing, and a touch devious—zips across her skin. His face dips, closing the gap between them, and his lips brush over hers in a soft, nearly chaste kiss. His lips are soft, and he still somehow smells amazing—an enticing mix of salty sea air and what she vaguely thinks may be citrus shampoo. The kiss lingers as neither of them make any effort to step away, and with a boldness that she hasn’t felt in months, Caroline takes a tiny step towards him, minimizing the space between their bodies. </p><p>The kiss deepens, her fingers tightening on the sides of his windbreaker, and his hands move, one dropping from where he had been holding the edge of the passenger door to rest at her hip and the other reaching to cup her face, his fingers sliding just through her windblown hair. Her mouth opens, and his tongue eases past her lips— </p><p>The direction of the wind shifts, and she hears an unfamiliar <em>click click click</em> from somewhere off in the distance. Her brain, thoroughly dazed and captivated by the man in front of her, dismisses the sound; but Nik does not, the line of his body stiffening before he takes a small step backwards. He doesn’t look at her, his gaze zeroing in somewhere over her shoulder instead. </p><p>“Daniel,” he barks out, and one half of the couple she had seen at the restaurant—one of his bodyguards, she assumes, an unfamiliar anxiety breaking out in her belly—marches across the street. “Oy,” she hears Daniel yell from behind her, followed by the sound of a car peeling away, tires screeching. </p><p>Caroline blinks, alarm just beginning to make itself known in the pit of her stomach as her cheeks begin to heat in embarrassment. Nik glances down, and in the blink of an eye, the fierce anger is swept away, replaced by soothing comfort, with just a hint of worry. </p><p>“He did not get your face,” he assures her, his thumb coming up to brush at her cheekbone, gently rebuffing her attempts to dip her chin and hide. “You may remain anonymous a little while longer, sweetheart.”</p><p><em>Sweetheart.</em> The endearment vanquishes all thoughts of anxiety and she smiles up at him. </p><p>—</p><p>“Secret dating?” Bonnie demands, her face skeptical as she hands Caroline a mug full of hot tea. The ocean air hadn’t felt chilly in the slightest while she had been in the middle of it, but now, back at the manor, it’s leached the warmth from her bones, leaving nothing but salt and the beginnings of a sunburn behind. “What, like he’s ashamed of you?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Caroline insists, not bothering to blow on the hot liquid before she takes a long sip. It burns down her throat. “We both—me <em>and</em> him, Bon—want to keep it quiet. From the press, specifically.” She pauses and lets the steam waft into her nose. “I’d like to keep my privacy for as long as possible.” From her seat on the floor, Olive lifts one paw up to rest on Caroline’s knee, her big brown eyes expectant. With a fond smile, Caroline reaches forward and obliges her with a scratch behind the ears. </p><p>Bonnie scowls, but doesn’t argue, and Caroline figures that’s as close as she’s going to get to an agreement.   </p><p>“Well,” Meredith says as she enters the living room, phone in hand, “you’re still anonymous, but you’re not exactly secret.” She hands her phone to Caroline, and there it is. </p><p>Or rather, there <em>she</em> is. </p><p><em>PRINCE NIK AND MYSTERY GIRL ON ROMANTIC OUTING</em>, <em>The Daily Mail</em> screams in bright blue font. She recognizes herself in the accompanying photo—her back is to the camera, her hair a salt-swept mess, and her face tilted up to his—but there are no identifiers. </p><p>“That was fast,” Caroline says faintly, staring at the image on the screen. “Like, really fast. I’ve only been back a few hours.”</p><p>“The devil works hard, but the Daily Mail works harder,” Bonnie says grimly. “Wanna bet how long your privacy lasts?” </p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>Bonnie ignores her as Olive, sensing trouble, jumps up onto the couch and rests the front half of her body on Caroline’s lap, her tongue darting out to give comforting kisses to whatever limb is available. “I say three weeks,” Bonnie says.</p><p>“I’m going to my room,” Caroline announces, gently scooting Olive off of her lap and heading for the exit. Olive trots excitedly behind her, and she leaves, she hears Meredith say quietly, “Two weeks.”</p><p><em>Great.</em> </p><p>—</p><p>
  <strong>tbc</strong>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me to me: remember, Kate Middleton's hair looks like a shampoo commercial because she's RICH. </p><p>Also I made Caroline a Pisces and I'm not sorry.</p><p>(Pls forgive all sailboat-related mistakes, Professor Google and I did our best!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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